KLONIE JORDAN — Executive Editor (editor@gaffneyledger.com) It’s strange how an incident can become a perpetual focal point of humor among friends.

Take, for example, the instance several years ago at the par-5, second hole at the now-closed Lan-Yair Golf Club.

You could attempt to go for the green in two shots if you launched a pretty fair drive, but your ball needed to be in the middle — or more ideally, in the left-middle of the fairway — because a huge tree about 50 yards or so to the front-right side of the green was an ominous obstacle.

On this particular day, Neil Kelly and I were playing in the dogfight (animal lovers relax, it’s just a term used to describe an open event involving several golfing competitors) and I had hit a relatively good tee shot. As I stood by the cart waiting for the group in front of us to clear the green, I measured in my mind the distance from where I was standing to the putting surface and calculated how far, and how high, would need to hit my second shot if I wanted to get there. At the same time, something in my feeble little brain said, “Lay up with a 7- iron dummy and then hit the next one on.”

NEIL KELLY But no. I was going for it in two. I looked at Neil, you know, for some sign of support in this risky endeavor. He was resting his chin on his forearm, which was across the steering wheel. He looked at my ball and then looked at the green, doing his own calculations.

“What do you think?” I asked.

He mulled it over for a few seconds and then — “I’d go for it,” he said. — “I’d go for it,” he said.

I wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not but I did know that I have made seven eagles in my life and four of them were on that hole — so why not?

I pulled out my trusty 7-wood. It’s my “safety club.” I have great confidence in my 7-wood. I feel like I can take that club and pretty much hit a golf ball relatively close to my intended target from 170 to 200 yards, providing, of course, the intended target is quite large.

To the right of where I was standing — and I mean W-A-A-A-Y-Y-Y to the right — there was a cart shed with a metal roof.

I gripped my trusty 7-wood, addressed the ball and took a mighty swing. The ball whooshed off the club face and took a right turn like some invisible “ball magnet” in the parking lot was drawing it in that direction. It was the quintessential “banana ball.”

My golf ball hit the top of that cart shed with a loud “pa-tinggg” (OK, I’m not sure how you spell the sound of a golf ball hitting a metal roof) and ricocheted off to who knows where.

I looked at Neil. “On second thought,” he said laughing, “maybe I WOULDN’T go for it.”

Any time after that particular wayward shot, whenever I would take my 7-wood out of the bag, Neil would laugh and emphatically announce “cart shed!”

That’s the kind of impression you leave when you hit a golf ball as badly as I hit that one.

Neil Kelly and I shared many great times on the golf course and in the snack bar after our Saturday rounds.

There are a number of stories I could tell you about our golfing adventures, many of them labeled with phrases like the aforementioned mockingly-yet-humorously quipped “cart shed!” It became the war cry synonymous with my producing the 7-wood from my bag. Neil never let me live down that awful golf shot.

I have hit many “banana balls” (for you non-golfers, a “banana ball” is a shot that curves off-course in an arc that resembles the shape of a banana) since then and I even hit that cart shed again — several times.

Neil and I entered a number of tournaments, but every time we discussed ponying up our entry fee, he would look at me and ask, “Do you think you can stay out of the cart shed if we enter this thing?”

Neil and I lost some matches, but we won a bunch of them too. Our non-tournament matches usually involved playing for a quarter a hole (big stakes, huh?).

Neil Kelly was laid to rest May 22 after waging a courageous battle against pulmonary fibrosis.

I still can’t believe he is gone.

In my mind I still see him pulling up in a golf cart next to my car in the parking lot on Saturday mornings so I wouldn’t have to carry my bag to the clubhouse.

I miss teaming up with him for those “quarter matches” and I will fondly remember all the countless episodes we shared out there chasing birdies and pars (like the back-to-back chip-ins for birdies during the club championship two years ago — unbelievable!).

To Neil’s wife, Phyllis, and to his family, you are in my thoughts and prayers.

Thanks for sharing him with me on all those Saturdays.

I wish for you God’s blessings.